The World Will End in Fire
by The Lonely Hunter
Summary: Post-Newsies. Sarah Jacobs has been trying for two years to lay her little brother to rest after an unexpected disaster. What happened to Les, and will Sarah ever recover?
1. Dear Diary

**Author's Note: **In this story I will be combining the _Newsies_ world with the historical Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire, which occurred on March 25, 1911. The rest of the details will play out as the story goes along. I did my best to maintain a semblance of historical accuracy, but if mistakes arise, well... eh.

This story is intended to be an exploration of the Jacobs' life after _Newsies_, specifically concerning Sarah (the narrator for several sections of this fic) and Les. I found that there's not a whole lot to Sarah's character in the movie, so I took some liberties in inventing my own personality for her. Just bear that in mind. Oh, and if my math is correct (which it usually is not), Les would be around 22 years old at the time of the fire.

* * *

**March 25th, 1913**

I am under no illusions, dear diary. I hardly expect a warm welcome from you.

To say it has been a while would be careless. Ten years, three months, and seventeen days have passed since I last wrote to you. You were abandoned; left alone to collect dust bunnies and private whispers on my nearly empty bookshelf. Once, a very long time ago, you were my best friend, my constant confidant, my escape from a world that wasn't nearly as bad as I had imagined.

For the past ten years I have passed you by, armed initially with good intentions that quickly evolved into sheer apathy. When I first laid you to rest, my fingers itched and cried to simply pick you up and hold you; I wanted desperately to compose one last goodbye, one last time, for old time's sake. I tried to convince myself of your worthiness for one last note, I will have you know: how many heartbreaks you held in your pages, how many tears had obscured your words, how many sounds of laughter bound you together. But you were always worthy—how could there ever have been any doubt?

Time passes quicker than we realize and my resolve to leave you behind, though tested at first, became second nature much easier than I would like to admit. How I wish I could say that I never forgot about you, that you were always in my plans and as soon as I had the time I would pick you up again and we could continue our adventure. For your sake, I wish I could say it, but it would be a lie. I forgot you, as an infant forgets its secret language. Eventually that itching died and found its place among other lost memories, and my fingers occupied themselves with other, more immediate troubles.

But times have changed, as they always do, and now I need you again. Now the world is as bad as I had once thought, and is in all probability infinitely worse.

You are a book. You are paper and ink, binding and cover. Your content, your soul, doesn't exist outside of me. But what I've come to find, dear diary, is that my soul doesn't really exist outside of you. When all is gone and the only traces left of me are these writings, you will be my soul. And therefore—as if you didn't already know—we are at a standstill.

I say all this because I have one last story to put to paper, one last story we both must share. Once this story is finished, I will toss you into the fire and you will be gone forever. You will return to the dust you once gave home to, alone on my shelf.

Why must I destroy you? Why not simply put you away again, content in your solitude?

No, I must be rid of you, once and for all. My soul may be tied up in your pages and lines, but my heart cannot hold this story any longer and neither can the world. It has been two years since it all happened, and for my sake, for Les's sake, it must be laid to rest. I must put his final moments to paper, and then I must burn them. The world is already too full of burdens to add another. The thought that I, or perhaps a mere stranger passing through who happens to stumble upon this diary, may someday read what I will write, is unbearable. I will burn you because no one needs to feel my heartache. Even if it means my story, my soul, is wiped out forever.

I have waited two years for the strength to put this story down, and here we are, together once again. There is no point in delaying any longer. Let us begin.

This is the story of how my baby brother—the light of my life, the brown-eyed squirt, the person I loved most in the world—died in a fire-proof tower of flames.

—**Sarah Jacobs**


	2. The Article

Yellowing article—neatly folded and found between the pages of Sarah Jacobs' diary.

**HUNDREDS PERISH IN FACTORY FIRE TRAGEDY**

**March 26, 1911**

Fifteen minutes before the work day was scheduled to end yesterday evening, unprecedented tragedy unfolded in New York City. One hundred and forty-eight young citizens perished amid a blaze ignited at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory on Greene Street and Washington Place. The building was believed to be fireproof, and indeed, afterwards showed little evidence of the horror that occurred within its walls.

The country has been left wondering how such a disaster could occur, which spared only a fortunate few.

CAUSE OF INFERNO

Speculation abounds as to what caused the fire, which was ignited on the 8th floor. Some have suggested that it began with a burning cigarette_—_strictly prohibited in all factory departments_—_that had been carelessly tossed into a bin of surplus cuttings. According to this theory, the spark quickly swept up the fabric pieces and went unchecked until it engulfed the entire 8th, 9th, and 10th floors of the ten-story building. Others wondered if perhaps the spark was the result of a machine engine running for too long. Regardless of the cause, the fire was the most disastrous since the sinking of the General Slocum in 1904.

CHAOS ENSUES

As hundreds of factory employees prepared to leave the premises and return to their homes and loved ones, a shout of "Fire!" echoed across the 8th floor of the factory. Pandemonium ensued as young men and women pushed and pulled against each other only to find the stairwells and exit doors bolted. Survivors explained that the back door of the factory floors remained continually locked, as supervisors suspected employees of stealing supplies.

Several young women attempted and failed to escape via the unlocked front door, which opened inwards and was impossible to breach because of the surging crowd pushing against them. Witnessing these failed escape attempts, several people intended to climb out of the building onto the fire escape, only to find the rickety structure already collapsed.

Horror built upon horror, and the victims were left stranded in the blaze with no viable way to flee. Smoke quickly consumed every space where the fire had not already intruded. Young men and women choked on the noxious fumes surrounding them. Survivors report the building lacked any nearby water with which to quell the flames, and no emergency procedures had been put in place. The employees of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory were left to fend for themselves.

All too quickly, the fire grew higher and hotter. A majority of the employees of the 8th and 10th floors were sufficiently warned of the fire and managed to escape, but the 9th floor met the fire unaware.

Firemen arrived on the scene immediately and deployed several nets with which to catch the falling men and women. Hopeful victims jumped in pairs from the burning building at the call of the rescuers. Despite the firemen's best efforts, there was simply not enough time or resources to save them all.

Other firemen on scene extended their ladders in the hopes that some of the factory employees could climb down to safety. Victims watched as the ladders rose, and their hearts filled with hope, only to be crushed when the ladders reached only to the 6th floor.

WITNESSES RECOUNT HORROR

From the very moment smoke emerged from the 8th floor at around 4:45 o'clock, crowds of people gathered below the building, watching the catastrophe develop into epic proportions. Women screamed hysterically and men cried hopelessly as the tragedy unfolded in front of their eyes. Onlookers tried desperately to help in any way possible, but nothing could be done to save those trapped inside.

Ambulances appeared one after another and a crew of 500 police arrived to manage the growing crowd outside the burning building. Many of the spectators were traumatized relatives, screaming for their families over the din of the tragedy. Mounted officers repeatedly charged the crowd to keep it in check.

ROOF SAVES HUNDREDS

At least 150 young workers were able to escape to the roof of the building. Most of those saved had been working on the 10th floor at the time of the fire and used the stairs to reach the top of the building. Several young students studying law in the adjacent Asch building helped dozens of girls reach safety by constructing makeshift ladders and pulling them up to the roof. Men and women from the buildings surrounding the factory did all that they could to help the victims escape.

The factory's owners, Max B— and Isaac H—, escaped to the roof when the fire began. They received a warning call before the fire reached their 10th-story offices and rushed to the top of the building in their freight elevator. Neither made any attempt to save their employees below.

FIREMEN BREAK THROUGH

Although the fire expired in only 30 minutes, nearly an hour and a half passed before firemen could break through to reach the 8th floor where the fire began. After combing through the debris on the factory floor, the firemen heard muffled shouts coming from the employee elevator. A few victims had survived by jumping into the elevator shaft and were calling for rescuers in the dark. Water from the basement filled the bottom of the shaft, and the firemen worked tirelessly to retrieve the survivors, who were immediately rushed to a nearby hospital.

TRAGIC ROMANCE

While tens of thousands of witnesses mourned the deaths of so many young citizens, one onlooker recounted seeing a young man—still officially unidentified—passionately kiss a young woman at a 9th-floor window before smoke engulfed the pair.

The witness was so affected by the scene that he has since checked himself into a psychiatric hospital.

FEW VICTIMS IDENTIFIED

All victims of the tragedy have not yet been identified, although authorities are actively searching for family members of the identified deceased. The most recent statistics claim 131 young women—the youngest aged 14—and 17 young men perished in the tragedy. All were much too young to suffer such a fate.


	3. My First Mistake

Dear Diary,

To begin to explain the details of Les's death, we need to go back to a time before. A time when we didn't know what would happen and that our lives would be broken. A time when I was foolish and prideful and told you that our mother was an awful seamstress. That was when it all began.

A person would never have known it to look at her, but every pillowcase, every alteration, every cross-stich my mother ever made came out crooked or outright wrong. She tried; anyone could see it in her shaking fingers and the frustrated wrinkles that became etched permanently in her forehead, but no matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she practiced, sewing never came to her, naturally or otherwise. Anytime David came home with a torn knee or Les's shirt lost a button, the garment somehow ended more ragged than before she had set her hands on it. Her intentions were nothing but noble, but intentions and skill rarely match up; at least that is what I have found.

Perhaps it was because she was ashamed of her own abilities, perhaps not, but unlike most mothers I knew, mine never taught me to sew. She always urged me to focus on school and worry about the domestic chores later. So, like the gentle, abiding daughter I wanted to be, I did. But my obedience only lasted so long. After deciding a miracle cure for my mother's sewing was a long ways away and having seen David sneak through the streets in shame of his tattered clothes too many times, I decided to teach myself to sew. Good intentions, I decided one cold afternoon, were not going to keep us clothed.

That was my first mistake.

My first attempts at mending our well-loved clothes were just as disastrous as my mother's had been. Snags and bunching ruled my tiny little world and tortured my otherwise unoccupied brain since I had stopped attending school. Desperate for any trick that would help my untrained hands I went to the girls in the neighborhood. To their credit, they did their best to hold back their giggles when they saw my ragged army of shirts and skirts. They taught me bits and pieces here and there: tips on how to sew straight lines, tricks on how to keep buttons from flying away, and, most importantly, how to hide mistakes, be they quaint or grave.

But it was an entirely different story back home. I knew, just from the look on my mother's face when she saw me practicing my sewing without her help, that she was hurt. She'd peer at me over her reading glasses when she thought I wasn't looking and stare with narrow, critical eyes. As tempting as it was to turn around and match her glare, I never had the courage to do it. I felt her eyes on me and knew I was breaking her heart in a little way. She never did say anything. Perhaps she had seen her sons go one too many days without socks to know it was a battle she shouldn't win.

Naturally, with practice I grew better and was able to disguise the less grievous mistakes I made as I worked. I offered to stitch anything that came through the door. My mother would simply watch silently as my brothers and father handed over their tattered things. As I handed more and more shirts back to him, my father began complimenting me on my work. He'd be sitting at the dinner table and say with his boasting voice that everyone at work knew about his daughter, the girl that could stitch up any hole like it hadn't ever been there at all.

And at that moment, the terrible beast of pride began eating away at me from the inside out. I loved that boasting voice, and I loved feeling important. I've since learned that pride is only for the young. It all seems so silly now. It took me a long time to realize and even longer to admit that I ever wanted my mother to be jealous of me. That I ever believed I was important. That I ever thought this would all end well.

This is what a sleepless night has done to me. Let me get back to the story.

Thanks to the long nights spent with thimble and needle in hand, I had started to earn a little money for myself from my sewing. A bit of darning here, a hole patched there, and I had enough to buy dress and a bonnet for myself. In those days my father was working and we were living well, as well as we could, so I didn't worry about the trinkets I bought for myself. I was never extravagant with my purchases, and I figured a girl had to live a little after being cooped up all day in cramped apartment.

And then it all came crashing down. My father came home both injured and unemployed one day, and that was the end of my living high. Our new destitution humbled me, but I counted my lucky stars I at least had something to contribute as a makeshift seamstress. If it were up to David and Les to sell newspapers, as they insisted on doing, we surely would have starved. Les had a bit of a talent for it, but David was hopelessly practical. I knew him well enough to know that he'd send the customers running the other direction as soon as he opened that wise-ass mouth of his.

Pardon my cursing. Perhaps it is the natural cynicism that comes with age catching up to me, but I find it tiresome to be so prim and proper now, much to the chagrin of my father. I never used to be this way, he says. But that was before.

During that time of little, my sewing and David's newspaper selling kept our family afloat. I noticed a change in my mother's eyes then that was much worse than her disappointed bitterness from before. Now when she looked at me she seemed almost thankful that I had disobeyed her and snuck around to learn to sew, without her knowledge or permission. Her smile, full of dull hope and hidden bitterness, was still unwavering, but it ruined all the joy I got from my talent. My mother was thankful _to me_. It wasn't supposed to be that way, but the other way around.

As I had always done, I locked all my feelings away inside you and put it out of my mind. My work was better than ever. There was nothing to apologize for. If my mother was going to look at me with those sad eyes of hers, well, I wasn't going to say anything about it. Not until she spoke first.

But the tides of life are often unpredictable. I had been turning out alteration after alteration when my brother David brought Jack Kelly home for the first time. I was embroidering a pillowcase for our upstairs neighbor when he first ambled in and my needle got away from me, staking and bunching the entire piece of fabric. He didn't seem to notice, and I lost all concentration. I was young then, and keen on any good-looking man who bothered to look my way.

My work took a turn for the worse after that. I was love-struck and distracted to the point of imbecility. I would find myself daydreaming about a date with Jack, a home with Jack, a life with Jack, and then I would look down and see stitches running over and sideways of each other. My giddiness was all so nonsensical that I couldn't sort out my work from my fantastic obsession, so I didn't. Few attempts at sewing were made while I was with Jack.

As my father's arm healed and I spent more time with Jack and away from home, my mother's spirit grew dimmer. To look back on it all now, it would be easy to admit that I became the terrible daughter I'd always fought against. From the very beginning I ought to have asked for her advice or help mending a seam, some small task that would have made her feel I wanted her help, that I needed her help while everything else was changing around her. Youth, pride, and foolish determination kept me from comforting her. And now, when I need comforting the most, she's gone too.

My hand is shaking and my letters are blurry. I will come back to you later. There is so much more to say.

—**Sarah Jacobs**


	4. The Interview

**A Brief and Personal Interview with a Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire Survivor, conducted by Thomas Kincaid, reporter for the New York Times**

_April 13, 1912_

Thomas Kincaid: This is Thomas Kincaid with the New York Times. Miss Catalina Pinello, a survivor of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire which occurred approximately one year ago, has been kind enough to provide us with an interview discussing her experiences working at the factory and of the fire. Thank you for joining us today, Miss Pinello. I imagine this is a very difficult subject for you to discuss.

_Pinello: Yes. I lost many friends in the fire._

TK: Let us start at the beginning. How and when did you start working at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory?

_P: One of my girl friends was working at the factory and told the supervisors I was quick with my fingers. They hired me because they needed some extra hands, I guess. I had been working there for about a year before the fire._

TK: Tell us about the factory conditions. How were you and the other workers treated?

_P: The days were long. Sometimes we'd work from seven in the morning until nine at night, especially during the busy season. We'd get a short break for lunch but that was all until we got out. No dinner. And if we talked they would chastise us and if you kept talking they would fire you. I didn't see it happen very often because everyone knew better than to talk while the supervisors were around. Every night when we left they would stop us at the door and search our bags for stolen goods._

TK: Would you mind telling us how the day began at the factory before the fire broke out?

_P: It was just like any other day. We all got there on time, the bell rang and we got to work. There wasn't any unusual work and no one that I can remember was missing. It was just a normal day at the factory. We were excited because we were going to be paid that day._

TK: Did any of the workers smell the smoke before they saw the fire?

_P: I was sitting on the far end of the floor, so I didn't smell anything. I don't think anyone did, otherwise there might have been a better chance for us to have gotten out of there. Even if they had, the fire spread so quickly it wouldn't have mattered._

_It was strange, though. I had heard a girl mention early in the morning that the water buckets that were kept by the windows in case of a fire were empty. That was the first time I heard anyone say it. And it happened to be on the day we would need those buckets the most._

TK: What happened next?

_P: Several people started yelling "Fire!" from across the floor and we all panicked. Most of the girls were getting ready to go home since it was the end of the day, and they already had their jackets on and were carrying their belongings. Everyone on one side of the floor rushed to the elevator and everyone on the other side ran to the exit door. Those of us who ran to the exit door couldn't get through because the door was locked._

TK: How did you discover that the stairway door was locked?

_P: The fire was growing quickly and everyone was rushing to the door. I was one of the last to get there. The door stayed closed and we were all just jammed there. I kept wondering why someone wouldn't open the door, but I just figured it was difficult with all the pushing and shoving going around. There was a commotion near the door and finally word got back to us that the door was locked._

TK: What happened then?

_P: It was chaos. It was worse than before. Everyone started screaming and grabbing onto each other. A few girls climbed on top of people to crawl to another exit, but they just fell to the ground when the people they were climbing on realized what was happening. After people saw that there wasn't a way out they started running to the windows. I heard later that some of the firemen had brought ladders but they weren't tall enough to reach the 9__th__ floor, so they couldn't get us down that way. You could see the fear on everyone's faces. We were desperate. _

TK: Did any of the supervisors try to help you out of the building?

_P: No. They were all gone and no one ever came to get any of us. There was a boy who used to sit across from us in the cutting department, Les Jacobs. He was always a very sweet boy and right smart, too. When the fire broke out and we all saw the doors were locked Les went around and hurried everyone to the elevator. I think he was looking for one of the girls, Rosie, whom he'd taken a fancy to but he couldn't find her and he kept just trying to get everyone to the elevator. He got a few of the girls inside on the only run down. They kept telling him to go inside but he wouldn't, he just kept pushing everyone else ahead of him. There were too many people in the elevator so the doors closed before I could make it on, but he told me to wait and get on when they came back up. Then he ran off I think to find Rosie._

TK: Did you see if he ever found Rosie?

_P: The smoke had gotten too thick to see anything by the time he'd run off, but I heard from one of the other survivors that she saw them together. _

TK: What happened to them?

_P: I would rather not talk about it. He was a sweet kid, and so was she. I just want people to remember them and how good they were._

TK: They didn't escape the fire?

_P: No._

TK: I'm sorry for your loss. How did you escape?

_P: Well I waited for the elevator to come back up but it didn't make it all the way before it dropped back down again. The shaft was open and all the girls started screaming around me because we realized it was broken. The only thing we could think to do was to jump into the shaft. The people behind me were pushing so I just grabbed onto the cable and jumped down on top of the elevator since it wouldn't be coming up again. I fell hard onto the elevator and lost consciousness. _

TK: How many people jumped with you?

_P: I don't know for sure. Afterwards they said that all the girls who'd jumped made a huge dent in the top of the elevator. There must have been a lot of girls with me._

TK: What happened when you were finally rescued?

_P: I was unconscious for a while but then I heard noises and I knew the firemen were trying to get through to us. A few girls had jumped on top of me and I could barely breathe, so I tried to dig through them to get some air and call for help. I heard a girl moan next to me when I called out and I grabbed her hand and held it tight. It was dark there so I couldn't see who she was or if I knew her. It took them a while but they finally got us all out._

TK: Did the company call you after fire to offer you any sort of compensation?

_P: No. I never heard from them again, and I never went back to work. I would have to be crazy to work for them again._

TK: Yours is a very moving story, Miss Pinello. Thank you very much for your time. We wish you luck in the future. Our thoughts are with the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire survivors.

_P: Thank you. But I think we'd all prefer your thoughts to be with those we lost that day. They're the ones who need it most._


	5. Quick Fingers

Dear Diary,

Times may look like they are changing, but it wasn't so long ago that a young woman was expected to marry quickly, and I had no reason to believe otherwise. Although Jack's and mine attraction lasted for a while, it couldn't last forever and we soon found ourselves going our separate ways, mine back home and his out west. There were several young men in the neighborhood who had caught my eye and I theirs, which was why one afternoon when Thomas Adler asked me to dinner I panicked. I said yes, of course, because he was a nice boy and came from a good family, even if his right eye did droop a little. But that same afternoon I went home and immediately started teaching Les to sew.

I have asked myself so many times if it was unreasonable of me to put my fears on my little brother. David and Les were still selling newspapers, but their profits were dwindling by the week and I worried that without the money I made from alterations my family would be left with nothing when the time came for me to get married. David was still living at home, but his head was always in the clouds with some grand idea or another and I knew that teaching him would be akin to teaching a fish to notice the shells on the bottom of the sea. My father had plenty to do besides worrying about needles and threads, and you already know about my mother's success with sewing. So when I got home that afternoon―my mind on Thomas Adler's kind hands and soft hair―and saw Les sitting alone at the table, I knew there was only one way to ease my mind.

In those days Les would sell his newspapers in the morning and go to school in the afternoon, then he would come home, head hanging and feet dragging and so exhausted that he could barely manage to schlep himself to the table. There he would sit with his eyes half-closed while he watched me show him everything he would need to know. He didn't talk much during those lessons, but I never expected him to. As long as he could sew a decent patch and make it appear expertly done, I was content.

As was to be expected, Les resisted at first. Far be it from me to pretend that cross-stitching is the way most young men prefer to spend their time. We practiced first on a few old pillowcases, which ended up only slightly mangled but still recognizable. And yet, despite Les's complaints and pricked fingers, those first practices were significantly better than what I had seen my mother attempt. But I never told Les that, although he must have known it. He may have been the apple of my mother's eye, but he wasn't blind.

After weeks of languid eyes and tiredly staggering about, Les began to turn out pieces I never would have imagined. He was good. Much better than me, certainly. Our father was working again and David was out studying to become a doctor, so doing alterations wasn't necessary to keep food on the table anymore, but I was and will always be the worrying type, and there will never be a shortage of ripped sleeves or torn seams.

What more is there to say? I taught Les to sew. He pushed and shoved and cried and pleaded, but he learned to sew in the end and every time my father came home with a torn cuff, it was fixed the next morning, no questions asked.

Time went by, as it always does, and Les was getting older. By the end of the year Thomas Adler had asked me to marry him and I had no good reason to say no, so I moved out and on to a new life. I thought it was the right thing to do, and I was painfully aware that I was older than most of my friends when they had married. David moved out of the house too, as soon as he was able, under the pretense of needing space for his medical supplies, and sent home money every week. After a time, he was married, and that was that.

Les, however, took a different route through life. He spent much of his time still reading the newspapers he once sold with David and Jack, despite our father earning enough money for him to go to school and never have to think about hiding ink-stained fingers ever again. But every day Les would come home, fingers ashy grey, a newspaper stuffed into his school bag hurriedly and clumsily. He never got over it.

So when he finished school and it came time for him to find a job we all thought he would be lost. He was too old to be a newsie, and too young and inexperienced to be a reporter, like he had always dreamed. For a few weeks he wandered about the house aimlessly, while my mother did her best to avoid asking him questions that would further deepen his mental and emotional absence. Every time I saw her she told me how she worried for her baby, her littlest son, until one day Les came home with a smile on his face and a few pennies in his pocket. He had found work at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory.

Or as it was known then, the palace of New York's Shirtwaist Kings.

The factory that sent my litter brother to his death.

The factory that did nothing when those who brought it to its height were trapped inside with no escape.

Breathe, Sarah. I have to remind myself sometimes, because such a rage boils up inside me I worry I might explode. I worry I might go crazy, belting out curses in the streets, carrying a hammer and breaking down the door of those damn murderers who managed to escape while the rest cried inside.

Breathe.

Les applied for the job. My mother wondered at him. The factory was known for employing women. Would a young man stay long in a factory like that? The supervisors were not convinced by my little brother either, as the only proof of his quick fingers was his word. But he was determined. He walked down to their offices and forced them to watch him sew. They were impressed. They gave him the job.

Since I had married and left home, I only saw Les whenever I went to have dinner with the family and whenever his free time happened to coincide, which wasn't often. I spoke many times with my mother about my worries, about the factory conditions, about Les's future. She understood and I can't help but think her worries went much deeper, but every time I saw Les he had a smile on his face as wide as a racetrack. How could I fault him for that? If he was happy, well, then I was obliged to be happy for him.

But now I know what happens next and happiness is the furthest thing from what I feel. Now I know what breaks that fragile happiness apart, what tears it in two, what burns it to the ground.

And I wish I didn't.

―**Sarah Jacobs**

I may now be called Sarah Adler by most, but my maiden name is the only thing that connects me with my brother these days. Official or not, that is who I will always be.


	6. The Letter

_December 1, 1912_

Dear Mrs. Adler,

We have not yet met, but please do not be alarmed by this sudden and surely unexpected communication. I received your name from a woman named Miss Catalina Pinello and your address from City Hall. My name is Elizabeth Cohen, and my sister Rose worked at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory with your brother, Les. I am aware that I am surely bringing back painful memories for you by mentioning your brother, but there are a few things I think you ought to know about him that I was too cowardly to write you before. I only pray that you will receive these memories happily and that I will not cause you more pain than you have surely felt this past year.

The first time my sister mentioned a young man named Les Jacobs was after her first day working on the ninth floor at the factory. I had long since married and moved out of the house to live with my husband, but when my father died I immediately went back to help my mother and sister. They had been utterly dependent on his meager income to survive, and thus even with my help the loss seemed at first too much to bear. I began by helping our mother shell nuts at home to sell on the street. My sister Rosie had volunteered to assist us with this monumental task despite being only seventeen years old, but when she realized she could make more money working at the factory she immediately set out to do such. You see, my sister was enormously strong-willed and refused to entertain the notion of being dependent on others while she was still capable herself. Even now I wonder at her bravery at such a young age and wish I myself had been so willing. That feeling, I know, will never leave me.

When she came home from her first day working at the factory it was near ten o'clock at night, and she hobbled through the door only to collapse at the family table. As I was often wont to do in those times, I immediately began to preach to her of the harsh reality of factory life; the dangers and the upsets and the worries felt by everyone at home. What she said next, I swear on my life I never expected. She wiped her brow with a dusty hand, gave me a shy smile and said, "Oh Lizzie, but what of love?"

I asked her to explain but she refused and sat down to eat her supper. I felt foolish and a pessimist after her outburst and to heal my self-inflicted hurt, I ignored her until she finished and went to bed. I cleaned for a while into the night until I snuck quietly into our room and crept into bed next to her. I blew out the candle and looked at her tenderly in the dark, imagining the grimness of the factory and her capacity to find love in such an unwilling place. Just as I was about to turn over and go to sleep, she whispered with a sly smile across her lips: "His name is Les Jacobs."

Mrs. Adler, I must beg your forgiveness as at that moment I immediately assumed this Les Jacobs was some sort of philanderer, chasing after my innocent sister's good looks and sweet heart. I now know nothing could have been further from the truth.

Although at first I was as tender as a rose bush concerning Rosie and her love, as the days went on and she slowly took me into her confidence I began to learn more about your brother. As Rosie told it, he was the handsomest man in the factory and the most intelligent as well. She said she had caught him a few times gazing at her while she worked when he thought she wasn't looking. She also finally told me what had happened that very first day to make her fall so intensely for a boy she had just met.

As she told it, Rosie was sitting at her station, nearly crying because of the sorry state of her poorly-sewn pieces, when she saw the supervisor walking in her direction. She had begun to hurriedly pack all her pieces together in the hopes that their disfigurement would be disguised, when she looked up and saw your brother staring at her. At first she thought he was perhaps deriving some cruel enjoyment from her misery, but she was quickly brought to her senses when the supervisor stood over her and demanded to see the pieces on which she had been working. Rosie said she felt a tear fall faintly down her cheek as she handed him the jumbled mess of cloth. He looked at the pieces, then at her, and just as he was about to fire her for her incompetence, your brother stood up and addressed the man. "Sir," Rosie recounted he said. "Those are my pieces. She was only helping me to fix them."

The man looked at your brother as if he had appeared from nowhere. He took the bits of cloth in his hand and looked at them and then back at your brother. "These are yours?" he had said. Rosie remembered the man seeming utterly incredulous, and she knew at that moment that Les was one of the few favorites at the factory. He told the supervisor again that yes, they were his pieces. He lied and said that he had gotten a crick in his hand for a time that day and all his pieces were coming out wrong, so he asked Rosie to fix them and she kindly complied. The supervisor stood staring between the two of them for a few moments, then threw the cloth on the tables and went off, mumbling something neither could understand.

Surely you can see, Mrs. Adler, that those men valued your brother. Where my sister and many others would have been fired for such grievous errors, your brother was quickly forgiven. He used his good heart to save her with a silly and potentially dangerous story, and the supervisors didn't say a word otherwise. It may be a small thing, but it's an important thing nonetheless, at least in my opinion.

As I understand it, from that moment on your brother took Rosie under his wing. Whenever she had a question or a problem, she went to him and he always obliged her. I have a feeling that she may have distracted him from his work, and for that I am sorry, although I am not sorry that they met, not in the least.

After many weeks of hearing so much about this young man I had grown to know and love in my imagination, I was very curious to meet him. The day of the fire I had asked Rosie if she wouldn't like to invite him to our house for supper, which she said she would. You know what happened then. I do not know if your brother ever received the invitation, but I can assure you it would have been my greatest honor to have met and served him after all the kind things he did for my sister.

To tell you of your brother's chivalry is not the only purpose of this letter, however. After Rosie passed, I was contacted by a young woman named Miss Lehrer, who happened to see Rosie and Les in their final moments. If you would be so willing, I would like to share her story with you, as you more than anyone deserves to know what happened to your baby brother. I would be honored to extend the invitation to dinner to you that your brother was unable to accept. I would understand entirely if you wish to decline in favor of forgetting a painful past, but please know that I invite you with sincere, earnest pleasure.

Once again, do not feel sorry if you choose to decline my invitation. My feelings will not be offended in the least.

Sincerely,  
Elizabeth Cohen

P.S. I hope it was not too presumptuous of me, but I have also written and extended an invitation to your brother, David. Anyone you care to bring with would be welcomed with open arms, as after everything we have been through, I consider you closer than family.


End file.
